Siege Fall (Siege of New Hampshire Book 2) Read online

  “Hmmph! Come on, Andy,” snipped Mara. “The stench of fascist oppressors is sucking the life out of this place.” Andy followed her dutifully, but looked back and shrugged his shoulders.

  “What the heck was that all about? Talk about attitude.” Dustin’s mouth was hanging open. “What a waste of totally awesome hotness.”

  “Dustin. You’re married.”

  “I know, I know. Just appreciating, not doing anything.”

  “Well, no one ‘does something’ without ‘appreciating’ first. Stop the first one and prevent the other.“

  “But, you saw her,” Dustin protested. “I mean, she looked Photoshopped! How does a real girl — camping in a gravel pit — manage to look Photoshopped?”

  “Dustin. You’re still ‘appreciating’. What good will come of that, hmmm? Now that you’re married, you have to learn to lock the door. How will your ‘appreciating’ help Judy?”

  “Um…I guess it doesn’t. I might oughta leave out the hotness details when I’m telling Judy about all this.”

  “Yeah. Probably wise. Now, while there’s still some afternoon left, let’s get back to finding a squirrel or something. We can scout that first spot again.”

  Martin found mental comfort of having an empty woods behind him. Despite the departure of Andy and Mara, the woods were no longer felt empty. Now he had to keep an eye out for foraging college kids, at least one of whom had a bad attitude.

  As they moved slowly through the low pines, Martin could hear some rustling of dry leaves. He looked back at Dustin, touched himself on the ear and pointed. Dustin nodded, touched his ear and pointed. They slowed their pace to be even quieter.

  Approaching the hole in the pine boughs, a glimpse of movement caught Martin’s eye to the far right. He turned for a better look, but even after waiting what seemed like a long time, there was no other movement. He began to dismiss it as a false alarm, but another leaf moved slightly. It was not the way the wind sometimes rustles leaves on the ground, but an upward wiggle. He studied the spot intently, keeping his eyes moving around the leaf.

  A gray squirrel’s tail flicked up, then disappeared. Then its head popped up. Little paws were feeding some morsel into its busy mouth. The squirrel disappeared again into the leaves.

  Martin moved out of the pines to get into a better position. Dustin moved out beside him. The squirrel hopped over to a small oak, not in a hurry, as if it had seen them, but at a casual pace. Martin moved to follow, so the squirrel would not get further away. He timed his movements for when the squirrel was head-down in the leaves.

  Despite his efforts to move silently, Martin snapped a bigger twig. The squirrel bounded over to a big maple, scrambled up and out of sight. Martin moved quicker, unconcerned any longer about making noise, to get closer to the maple. His eyes darted around, studying the bare branches. Where would the squirrel emerge? Which tree would it try leaping to?

  Once in a good position, Martin waited. Dustin stood silently behind him. They waited for several long minutes.

  “He must still be back there,” Martin whispered back to Dustin. “We’d have seen him jump to another tree, or heard him on the ground.”

  “Maybe he has a nest in a hollow spot?” Dustin whispered back.

  “Or maybe he’s just trying to wait us out on the far side. Tell you what. I’m going to get into position here. You slowly circle around the left. Keep kinda far from his tree, but keep moving slowly and be really obvious. If he is waiting us out, he might scoot around the tree to stay hidden from you.”

  Dustin smiled. The game was on.

  “Don’t go any further than that clump of birch over there,” Martin added. “Don’t want you near the shot angle.”

  Martin settled down onto one knee and propped the .22 in kneeling position. Dustin moved sideways, then started curving out around the big maple. Martin got himself settled into position, sighting through the scope. There was nothing to see but tree bark. He tried to anticipate where along the right side of the tree the squirrel might appear. He slowly slid off the safety, so it would not make an obvious click.

  Dustin walked, like a casual hiker, in a wide arc around the maple. The squirrel did shift around, keeping the tree between himself and Dustin, but he was higher than Martin anticipated. He had to adjust his support arm higher and squat down lower.

  The squirrel must have seen Martin’s subtle movement and froze. Dustin must have seen Martin’s movement as well and realized what it meant. He froze too. For several long moments, Martin slowly moved the crosshairs up the tree, along the squirrel’s tail and back, finally stopping on its head. A wary black eye seemed to be staring directly at Martin.

  It was hard to keep the crosshairs still on the squirrel’s head. The extended position was not as stable as it needed to be. Martin tried to steady his aim with a slow deep breath. The squirrel twitched its tail. It was about to bolt.

  Martin held the rifle a little tighter to steady his aim and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot echoed briefly in the late autumn woods. The squirrel reeled to one side, hung on for a moment, clutching the bark, then fell.

  Dustin rushed over to the tree. Martin tried to keep his eye on the spot the squirrel fell, but stumbled getting up.

  “Did you get it?” Dustin asked. “I didn’t see it fall.”

  “I think I got it. It fell over this way…I think.” They rummaged through the deep leaf litter.

  “Here he is!” announced Dustin, pulling the squirrel up by the tail.

  “Darn. Shoulder shot,” said Martin. I was aiming for his head. Kinda tore up that quarter. Oh well, it’s something for the pot, anyhow.”

  The two walked back to the trail that led to the little wooden bridge. Dustin was the proud trophy bearer. Martin had to admit to a little ‘mighty-hunter’ glow. The euphoria could not grow too large, however. It was still just a single gray squirrel.

  There is barely enough meat on one squirrel to make a day’s portion of protein for two people. Never mind it being enough for six. He had enough .22 rounds for a thousand squirrels. His backwoods, however, was not going to supply three squirrels a day for months to come. Even if he had all of old man Bailey’s woods, three squirrels a day might occasionally be possible, but for how long? There were not a thousand squirrels in Bailey’s woods.

  If he brought home a deer, that could be protein for six for a couple months. He would not have the luxury of driving to some remote deer-rich patch to hunt. Were there deer in his backwoods? He had not seen one for over a year, nor was he a deer hunter. Who had time for that? Commute to Boston in the dark. Commute home in the dark. No abundant free time to sit in the woods.

  Still, he did have slugs for his shotgun. Every deer hunter starts as a rookie, he reasoned. He could scout out old man Bailey’s woods too. That promised better odds of finding a deer. That is, if some ideological college kids have not run them all off. He could, at least, look. They would need a better, more sustainable solution to their protein problem than squirrels. It was unsettling to admit that he did not have a better idea. He shook off the disquiet by telling himself, One day at a time.

  “Hey mom! Lookee what we got!” Dustin held the squirrel high as he walked up the stairs.

  “Oh!” said Margaret admiringly, followed quickly by another ‘oh’ an octave lower. The house rule has always been: no dead animals in the house. Animals have to be skinned and cleaned outside before they can come into the kitchen.

  “I know, I know,” said Martin. “We’ll go out back to deal with it.”

  “Good. But now that I see you have something, I think I’ll change my supper plans. I was going to thaw out a quarter of a chicken for the soup tonight,” Margaret added. “If you don’t take too long, I’ll save that quarter for another day and we’ll have squirrel soup instead.”

  “One squirrel would make a rather meatless soup for one of your usual big pots,” Martin said.

  “True. I’ll still thaw a couple drumsticks.”
/>   —

  At supper that evening, Susan looked at Martin, then the pot of soup skeptically. “This is chicken soup, right? You said chicken earlier.” Margaret scooped a ladle full. Susan studied the little chunks of meat as they fell into her bowl.

  “Yes,” said Margaret.

  “Mostly,” added Martin. Susan glanced back at him with narrowed eyes.

  “I used to have a pet chicken when I was a girl back in Maine,” began Ruby. “But one day it was gone. Mother said it ran away…”

  Chapter 5: Sobering News

  “Here’s a box with a dozen half-pints of jam — a mix of kinds.” Margaret pushed a thin cardboard box into Martin’s arms. “Hold it carefully. It’s kind of flimsy for holding jars. All my sturdy boxes went to carrying kindling.”

  She turned to pick up a second box. “This box has six pints of salsa. Not the hot kind, be sure to tell people that.”

  “Me?” Martin asked. “You can tell them. You know what’s in them better than I do.”

  “I can’t go, Martin. I just got the fire going in the cinderblock fire pit thing you made.

  “Why would you start the fire now? You knew the meeting started at 10:00.”

  “Because I have to can up those beets before they go soft.”

  Martin sighed in protest. They just dug up those beets two weeks ago. They were in no danger of going soft that day. He could recognize a smoke screen excuse when he heard one, but knew there was no point in arguing. A canning process will not be aborted once it’s begun.

  “Now, you’ll have to carry these boxes very carefully,” she pushed and pulled at the boxes, but could not get them arranged in Martin’s arms to her satisfaction. “I don’t want you dropping anything. Can’t trade broken jars. No, no, no. You can’t hold them like that. The sides will bend out…”

  “Okay, okay,” Martin said with restrained exasperation. “Maybe I shouldn’t carry both boxes at the same time. I’ll have Dustin carry the other one.”

  “No,” Margaret said. “I sent him and Judy up on Baldwin’s meadow to gather the last of the autumnberries before we get a hard frost.”

  “Oh. Then, I’ll use the wagon. I could put down a layer of towels to cushion the…”

  Margaret’s shoulders slumped. “I left it at the Walkers. It’s full of kindling.”

  Ruby slowly made her way from the hallway to a dining room chair taking small shuffling steps. Clearly, Ruby was not a solution.

  Susan sat at the far end of the couch, trying to look as if she was engrossed in watching the birds at the feeder and completely detached from the dilemma of the flimsy boxes.

  “Maybe I should just take the jam,” Martin offered.

  Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think that many people will want the sweets, but some might. The salsa might appeal to others. Better to have more to offer.” She looked at Susan for what seemed forever. Susan, for her part, continued a fixed fascination with the bird feeder.

  Margaret deflated with a heavy sigh. “Fine. She can carry the other box,” she said gravely. “Oh. I know.” Margaret’s voice perked up. “Maybe she should set up at a different table. It might increase trading potential.” She was digging for a silver lining.

  Martin could not see how two separate tables would make any difference for trading, but did not want to disparage the straw she was grasping at. It was expedient to stay silent.

  “Here. Take this up to the trade meeting,” Margaret held out the box of jam to Susan.

  Susan stood up, blinking her eyes. “Huh? I was just watching the birds. What’s going on?”

  Margaret put the box of jam in her arms. “These are half pint jars of different flavors of jam. Trade for protein foods: meats, if you can, beans, things like that.”

  “And Martin, tell people how salsa will make plain food more interesting. Might help. Remember: meats are best. Beans are okay if no one is trading meats. Don’t be too long. Hurry back home when the meeting is done. There’s things to do around the house, you know.”

  Susan walked on the other side of the road from Martin until they had crested the rise and the house no longer in view. She then moved alongside him. “I can’t believe she actually wanted me to come. And it was her idea!”

  Martin chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. It was more a case of having cooked her own goose.”

  “It’s like she didn’t want to come.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Why? I didn’t think the meeting on Friday was all that terrible,” Susan said. “Except for that fight, of course, and realizing I was a helpless city person. That wasn’t much fun, but I’m fixing that. Still, what’s the big deal? Why doesn’t she like going to town meetings?”

  “Oh, that goes back to the town we used to live in. We tried to get involved, you know, responsible citizens and all. Volunteered for committees, served on panels, stuff like that. She wanted to get things done. Make things better. That’s how she is. But, it really frustrated her. The powers-that-be were more interested in the appearance of action, than actually doing anything. Reports that she pained over were just bookshelf filler for the councilmen.”

  Martin chuckled at the memory. “One time, she really blew up during a council meeting. What a fireball she was too. Started telling them all off. It was all true, of course, and everyone knew it, but you can’t actually say all those things out loud and hold any committee positions.”

  “Really? She blew up at them? Did you guys get kicked out of town? Susan asked, as if it were a dark family secret.

  “Hehe, no. This little house came on the market and was kind of my dream house. Woods, a stream, and a shallow well I could put a hand pump on. All it lacked was a wood stove, which I had put in. So, we happily left the old town politics behind. We’ve just been living the quiet life, minding our own business. So, long story short, Margaret really doesn’t want to get involved in town matters ever again.”

  —

  As Martin and Susan got nearer to town hall, other people could be seen carrying boxes. A few of them pulled kiddie wagons. Martin took some comfort in knowing his revolver rode in his coat pocket, but realized he could not react to anything quickly with his arms full of salsa jars. A defense tool could be handy during the trading portion of the meeting, in case some crazed have-not tried to cash in. Yet, were four jars of salsa worth shooting over?

  The rows of wooden folding chairs in the auditorium were more filled than there were on Friday. Folded tables rested against the back wall. Boxes and bags were lined up along the two long walls. Martin gestured toward a gap in the boxes. Susan set her box in the gap. Martin laid his box on top.

  “Not many open seats this time,” said Martin. “Looks like we’re on our own again.”

  Susan pointed to a pair of seats near the center.

  “Aren’t you worried Margaret will ask you where you sat?”

  “She didn’t last time,” Susan said with an embarrassed smile. “All she said was something about separate tables.”

  “True.” He motioned for her to precede him down the row. A flash of guilt tingled Martin’s shoulders. He was looking forward to her sitting beside him. He told himself it was just the comfort of a known face versus strangers. He never was much for crowds. He could honestly tell Margaret that the hall was almost full: there were very few seats to chose from — if she asked.

  Martin spotted the same familiar faces, sitting in roughly the same places. People do have their favorite spots, he thought. Candice sat in the front row again. In the back row sat Dunan and his wife, heads down, arms folded. Apparently they did not get down to Wellsley — perhaps stopped at the border. Pete was in his previous spot too.

  Jeff Landers walked in carrying a couple file folders and a pad of paper. His somewhat generous frame was more evident than usual, enclosed in a thick sweater composed of large triangles in all 16 crayon colors.

  “Whew, Jeff,” called a man near the door. “What’s with the sweater?”

  Lande
rs blushed a bit, but kept walking briskly. Now all eyes followed him.

  “Yeah, that’s a mighty bright sweater for such a…important, guy like you,” quipped a tall thin man in a corduroy ear-flap cap. Martin recognized the cap and the man from his visits to the General Store. It seemed he was always there, telling jokes to the cashier girl or long stories to the owner as he tried to sweep the pine-board floor. They called him Mr. Hooper.

  Landers side-stepped behind the others seated at the table, to get to the center seat. “This is a really warm sweater, okay?” His tone had a hint of defensiveness to it. “There’s no heat in the building yet, so I dressed warm. Besides, my wife says bright colors make you feel warmer.”